the absurdity of suburbia
the man with the plastic bag stands patiently
his dog is having a shit on the council’s grass verge
pristine
soon he will pick up the shit while it is still warm
and squish it into the appointed bin
anointed with the frankincense of putrefaction
jesus christine
both the man and his dog are satisfied
a few lampposts to pee on and to count the way home
either side of their lead suburbia is quiescent
ruined he was
i see the ruined hands of the men
the men who built and the men who toiled
and rested a hand on the walls at furnace side
see the lime mortar there
it is their dried tears
see the black slag there
it is their bruised lives
their wrinkles were the banknotes counted
by the iron masters there
that is what i see and what my dad told me
a repairer of soles
my late father had a last
sprigs between his lips
a metal moon on the heel
the shoes are still here
if only in my memory
of him coming home from work
silence ~ not a breath
silence
not a breath
but the mumble of a bumble bee
to stir the lobelia that stirs me
the sun upon my shoulder
is hot this heady morn
the cat is asleep on the red cushion
she has been glorious since dawn
i’m learning to relax
it has been a long time you see
the sun is relaxing the cat
and she is teaching me
then a wood pigeon clatters through
disturbing us both
the sun goes slowly
behind an errant cloud
again silence
talks to me in poetry
in words i do not understand
a cloak of invincibility
he took this his camouflage
from the very stones there
walked away in it
and left a hole of soul
took the voices off the stone tapes
from the history of people’s times
there no more in the shapes
transplanted to the rockery of souls
colour blindness stared dead
as the day turned
weighing them down
the errant shadows
one by one
each under its own pebble
all day they turned
begging the sun to stop to help
but it went on its merry way
and then
at last
as the shadows lengthened
their longing escaped
they were gone
the pebbles roared
at the sea’s grief
for the serpent moon
was only a shadow
of what could have been
text me a poem now
give me fast words
good words
true and real words
make me cry
but make it quick
It’s a funny old world
ping
the last echo
trading poems with a poet about death
is like waiting for an echo not to return to the subject
and then
and then i will be king
of the caste
your turn
of phrase
horizon
the earth hung from the sky
floated on the waters beneath
the horizon was a compromise
a truce if you like
not an end to the war
between life and death
we sail that horizon in the boat named expectation
no anchor
no less
and
no more
Find Friends
on the day of my birth
‘Find Friends’ puts me somewhere in the same circle
as my mum
before that
the circle of probability gets smaller and smaller
as my dad approaches
before that
in all probability
a parallel universe bubbled
and a versary not
i wasn’t born on this day in 1949
it was on another day
in another month
of the same year
but what the hell
time is a blur these days
but i know where my mother was
on that day for i cried and cried
and she cuddled me asleep
et cetera
what if you
are a dreamer
in a dreamer’s dream
dreaming of a dreamer
dreaming of a dreamer
et cetera
who would wake up first
is life a cascade of dreamers dreaming dreams
et cetera
wake up son
it’s time for school
the alarm clock repeats
et cetera
et cetera
et cetera
strange this trepidation
it’s not going to
to rain like it did
on your child plans
so long ago
it still refuses to reset
when you plan a sunny day
and all along the way
you remember that day
when it broke down
and was rained off
and your plans were reigned in
it is still in harness the stallion worry
stamping upon the grounds of your ire
too late now to hope
for trepidation to be put out to graze
and to no longer graze the knees of your prayers
too late now
and yet the sun always shine through
doesn’t it
strange isn’t it
